


Again

by wandering_gypsy_feet



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-07
Updated: 2017-11-07
Packaged: 2019-01-30 13:27:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,109
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12654444
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wandering_gypsy_feet/pseuds/wandering_gypsy_feet
Summary: Sansa Stark was no longer, and there was only Alayne Stone. Except for when she saw two people she long thought dead, and she remembered who she was again. AU, where when Sandor Clegane and Arya Stark made it to the Vale, someone was waiting to greet them.





	Again

**Author's Note:**

> Ok, another one shot with some slight SanSan. I promise I am about ready to start posting my long form, but with the holidays coming, I want to make sure I actually have time to do regular updates and not leave you guys hanging. So here's a oneshot, because really, you think Littlefinger wouldn't come running if Arya Stark appeared at his gate? Based on this amazing gifset on tumblr, which I cannot post here, but inspired this whole thing.

“Yes father?” Alayne Stone strode into her father’s solar at the Eyrie, managing to keep a small smile on her face. He was sitting at his desk, bent studiously over some maps and papers. When she entered, he looked up and a smile crossed his face, but not his usual one. Usually, he looked at her like he knew the ending of some riddle she had yet to puzzle out, but today it was different. Today it was a little darker, a little more sinister. Reminding her of what he’d been like back when she’d had a different name. 

“My beautiful daughter.” He stood and opened his arms wide. She went to him, knowing what would happen if she didn’t, and let him engulf her. “I have a surprise for you.” He whispered in her ear and she couldn’t help but tense, just slightly. 

“What is it father?” She drew back when his grip on her loosened and she stepped back, noticing that he was retrieving something from the back of his chair. She frowned slightly when she saw it was his cloak.

“Go, put on yours.” He ordered, in an indulging tone. 

“Where are we going?” Her feet were rooted to the stone floor of the Eyrie, as a sort of panic began in her hips and worked its way to her stomach and shoulders. 

“To the Bloody Gate.” He told her and his eyes sparkled in a sinister way. She hated that looked, and it never bode well for her or anyone else. She saw that look before he pushed her Aunt Lysa out the moondoor, and when he’d ordered Ser Dontos killed. 

“Why?” She knew it was going to get her into a world of trouble, all her questions, but she couldn’t stop herself. She eyed him warily, but he didn’t get angry. Instead, he reached out and took her shoulders, gently. 

“Because,” He said carefully, as if she was a very dull child. “I have a surprise for you. For you, Sansa.” 

The way he said her name made her jolt. He hadn’t called her that since their arrival. Since her hair was dyed dark and she took on the mantle of bastard with ease. Her eyes went wide and she stared up at him with astonishment. He smiled, nodded encouragingly, and then spun her around. 

“Oh—” She went to start, but he ignored her. 

“Get your cloak, and meet me in the hall in a moment. Quickly now.” He ordered, grabbed something from the drawer in his desk and she went, least he change his mind. 

Her mind, on the other hand, was racing. She had no idea what he intended to give her, especially for Sansa, not his bastard daughter. What could it possibly be? More lemons? They’d gone through the last of them, and she was secretly glad. Every time he served her lemoncakes, he would watch her with a smile that spoke to the fact that he would make her give kisses as a thank you. 

She got her cloak, wracking her brains, a thrill of horror at what might be waiting for her at the Bloody Gate. What was waiting for Sansa Stark? For an irrational second, she wildly hoped that maybe, just maybe, it was her family. Someone had come to take her home. Except there was no family, and there was no home, and there was nothing anymore. Nothing at all. 

It’s just lemons, she reminded herself. It’s just something stupid and petty and small like lemons, or a new dress. Nothing special. Nothing to get her hopes up over. She almost slid into the hall, gasping, trying to remind herself that ladies didn’t run, nor did they appear flustered or worried or anxious. She tried to appear serene, but her heart was thudding, painfully, in her chest. 

When Petyr appeared, flanked by a couple knights, and smiled down at her, she felt like her stomach had flown out the moondoor as well. She felt herself slide back into Alayne, taking her father’s arm and accompanying him down from the Eyrie. 

As they went to the Bloody Gate, she felt like asking him why they personally were going to the gate, rather than send a messenger. Surely it had to be something monumental for Petyr himself to go down, and to bring her with him just confused her more. She counted the steps as they went, rather than listen to Petyr prattle on. 

_142, 143, 144, 145, 146…_ She looked towards the gate, still a decent ways away. She could see a few horses, prancing, waiting for them, at the bottom of the Eyrie. She wanted to ask, but she knew enough to keep her mouth shut. _187, 188, 189, 190, 191…_

Finally, when they reached the bottom, Petyr led her to the pretty white mare she’d taken a shine to, and she swung herself up, muttering under her breath to the horse, patting her neck. When she straightened up, the look of dark triumph in Petyr’s eyes was only growing, and it made her stomach turn. 

“Shall we?” She made herself smile prettily, fluttering her eyelashes as though she was an empty, air headed flirt. It apparently worked, because he seemed appeased by it, and began to canter down to the Bloody Gate. Sansa rode with him, and remembered when she was so ill at ease on a horse. Not anymore. 

It was impossible not to feel fear on the ride. She had no idea what to expect at the gate. Wildly, she thought that maybe Littlefinger was going to present her to Cersei or Tyrion, hand her back over to the lions of the court. She tried to stem the rising panic and remind herself that she was a Stark. She was brave, and important. He wouldn’t go through so much trouble to get her out of there just to return her to it, would he? 

Still, when they finally reached the gate, the sun nearly down in the sky, the men atop it were shifting uncomfortably, and had their weapons well displayed. Fear prickled in her belly, and she couldn’t help but give Littlefinger a nervous look. 

He dismounted and gestured for her to do the same. She did so, swinging her leg off the horse, and walking towards him on trembling legs that had little to do with the ride. He reached up, settling her hood over her hair, letting his hand brush across her cheek. She bit back a shiver and stared up at him, trying to come off as hopelessly trusting when every inch of her body was shrieking at her to turn and run. 

“Smile, my sweet daughter.” He said indulgently. “It is a surprise, not a nasty gift.” 

“I am sorry, father.” She worked to keep her voice even and happy, doing her best to chirp her words. “I just cannot even imagine what it might be.” 

“Come, and you shall see.” He offered her his arm with a smile that didn’t reach his eyes, and Sansa took it. After a moment, the Bloody Gate swung open. Sansa, glancing at him out of the corners of her eye, began walking forward. 

There didn’t seem to be anyone outside the gate. The road in front of them was empty, and she frowned slightly, glancing at him once more. What would he bring her here for, if it was nothing? Then, she spotted two figures on the road, one huge and one tiny in comparison, flanked by knights of the Vale. As they neared, the details began to focus. 

The man was so tall, she vaguely thought of the only man she knew to be that size. He wore armor of a knight, but it was so badly dented and worn she knew he was a long ways from home. A massive sword hung at his side, and long, scraggly hair fell down his neck in a tangled, unwashed mass. It fell in front of his face and Sansa, even from a distance, wished he would raise it. If he raised it, she might be able to tell if…

When she glanced at Littlefinger, his hungry gaze was focused on the smaller figurer, and so she knew that should be the source of her interest. She looked back at what she thought was a small boy, sulking half behind a knight. Dark hair, small frame, dirty squire’s clothes, No one of importance, Sansa thought, and was about to turn her attention to the large knight once again, before the boy looked up. 

Sansa sucked in a gasp at the same time as hysterical, bordering on maniacal laughter rang out through the mountains of the Vale. 

 

 

Arya knew she sounded insane. She sounded like a mad woman, but every time she tried to stop, she pictured Sansa’s prim, proper face scolding her, telling her to straighten up, act like a lady, and stop it. And then that thought made her only laugh harder.

She was laughing because it was so absurd. It was the most absurd thing to have ever happened to her, ever, and she had survived much, much worse in her life. But here she was, bloody, bruised, and covered in filth, standing beside the infamous Hound, staring at her long lost sister. 

Because that was Sansa, she had no doubt. They could dye her hair and cover her up in a drab little grey dress, but it was Sansa. Arya would’ve bet Needle, she was so sure. She knew that face, knew it better than her own. Knew those wide eyes and that rosebud of a mouth. Knew it like the back of her hand. Sansa. 

Arya took one look at Littlefinger’s face, and a fresh wave of laughter rang out. Of course it was him. She remembered him from court, remembered how he slunk about through the shadows, how he made her shiver. She was realizing, now, that she was an excellent judge of character, especially for men. 

Littlefinger was the worst. Even the Hound, being a brute and a murderer, was better than him. Because the Hound was honest, and Littlefinger was a liar. He was a liar, and nothing about him ever sat right with her. 

Of course then, of course Sansa was in his clutches. Of course she was here, with him. It would’ve sent her into another fit of laughter, except she had the breath knocked out of her by the Hound smacking her back. 

“Enough.” He growled and Arya’s laughter subsided, just a few stray chuckles she couldn’t suppress. 

“Sandor Clegane.” Littlefinger’s voice echoed amongst the rocks and Arya watched as Sansa stiffened, even only slightly. Suddenly, the situation became increasingly more dire, and less funny, as she comprehended how they stood. 

Lysa was dead. The aunt she never met, one who was crazier than Old Nan, was dead and instead Littlefinger ruled in her place. And now the Hound was going to sell her to him. He already had Sansa, he was just waiting for her. Collecting the last remaining Stark pieces on the chess board, so that he could send them in the directions he wanted. 

He didn’t have relation to her. He didn’t care. He didn’t honor the Tully words, of family and honor and duty. He was no one, no one at all, and he knew it. All he wanted was power, and if he held them, he held the north, and they all knew it. 

“Littlefinger.” The Hound’s voice rang out and Arya moved behind him automatically, just a half step and Sansa’s eyes snapped from his face to her sister’s.

It didn’t take her more than a second to understand the look on her older sister’s face. Sansa’s eyes screamed at her, silently, but with such intensity Arya was surprised that the mountains didn’t echo with it. 

Run, she was screaming. Save yourself and run. Just like Kings Landing, leave her in danger and save her skin. Arya felt sick with it, with the memories of what had happened. Every single thing about this screamed danger to her. She wanted to run and there was nothing she could do but hope that the Hound would take her and fight those who tried to follow. 

That was out of the question and she knew it. He didn’t give a damn about her, and he knew as well as she did that Littlefinger could, and would, pay handsomely for her. She had no way to escape this one, and neither did Sansa. Both of them looked at each other, as helpless as the other. 

“It seems you have found a stray dog.” Littlefinger’s voice was so sickening, Arya wanted to run him through with Needle and be done with it. “Did you make her your own little pet?” 

“No.” The Hound’s voice, by contrast, was sharp like the steel on his back. “Right price, and you can have her.” 

“But why would I want a dirty little stray?” Littlefinger was far too delighted by this. Arya wanted to be sick. 

“You know who she is.” The Hound was getting annoyed now, clenching and unclenching his fist.

“Do I?” Littlefinger stroked his chin, looking down at her as though she was a horse he planned to buy. 

“Of course you do.” The Hound growled, eyes flickering to where Sansa stood, rigid. “Otherwise you wouldn’t have brought her.” Sansa gasped, quietly, at that. 

“This is my bastard daughter Alayne.” Littlefinger said smoothly and the harsh rasp of laughter startled them all. 

“Aye, and I’m the Imp’s bastard. I know who she is, you cunt.”

Suddenly, Arya remembered something. It hit her like a boulder. The moment, once, when the Hound had been talking in his sleep. Muttering over and over, face contorted in what might have been pain. 

“Little bird, no… Little bird, no, please, no…. Little bird, please… No, no, not her…. No, little bird…” 

Then, in the morning, when he’d risen, he hadn’t said a word but Arya had seen tears on his cheeks. 

She looked up at him now and saw that he was glaring at Littlefinger, glaring hard, and Sansa was staring at his burned face. It slotted into place for her then, his rage after hearing of Sansa’s marriage and disappearance. Hope suddenly flickered in her belly. Maybe, he would…

“What do you suggest then?” Littlefinger nudged Sansa a step closer to them and she nearly stumbled on the loose rocks. The Hound lurched forward to catch her, but Littlefinger had already steadied her. Sansa wasn’t looking at the shorter man beside her, but rather the giant man in front of her. 

“How about,” The Hound’s voice was quiet, and utterly deadly. Arya felt for her Needle, knowing the signs. “You give me Sansa Stark, and those pretty horses, and I don’t end you where you stand.” 

Area’s heart thrilled and she noted, with some surprise, that Sansa’s seemed to as well. 

 

 

Well fuck him sideways through all seven hells, it would be less painful than this, Sandor thought to himself, but didn’t say a word. Throwing himself off a cliff would be better, and there were plenty of cliffs nearby for him. Surely the fall down one would be easier than this. A swift, painless death, and an end to it all.

He pulled himself out of his morbid thoughts, needing to focus his attention. Because by all accounts, he had no idea how the fuck he ended up here, and he had no idea how the fuck he was going to get out of it. 

No, he knew how he got here. The memories played back, rapidly, in order. Burned by Gregor. Trained by Lannister’s. Mocked by Cersei. Taunted by Joffrey. Captivated by Sansa. Annoyed by Arya. And now, captured by Littlefinger. Fucking great, he thought bitterly. 

Oh, how Arya had fought. Like the little she-wolf that she was. That was how he’d ended up being marched by the guards, because he’d been busy defending her scrawny neck from some knight who thought it honorable to kill a little girl. A screeching order from Littlefinger had halted it all, and like a good dog, he’d sat down. 

He knew where he’d be taken. He’d heard the Imp talking about sky cells, how they were open to the elements. He briefly entertained the idea of throwing himself off one there. It’d be easier than this. 

The only thing that made it even remotely worthwhile was the sight of a little grey figure, a few horses ahead. Of course, the sight of Arya, slumped against the neck of a horse being led by one knight was amusing, seeing as she’d been a bigger struggle to bind and gag than him. 

But the little grey bird… She was his. He didn’t even stop the possessive thoughts anymore and it made rage swell up in him. That was his little bird, his, and Littlefinger was holding her hostage. He’d dirtied her wings and thought to hide her, but he was an idiot if he thought a northern songbird could be passed off as a mountain swallow. 

She was why he’d gone quietly. If he was Littlefinger’s prisoner, perhaps he could see her, even if only for a moment before he was sentenced to death. It would be worth it, to see those blue eyes on his face, see those lips agape, see how she watched him. 

Because he was a lovesick fool, he knew that, but he was no idiot. He’d seen her look at him, as she’d came down the mountain and through the gate. She’d been shocked to see Arya, certainly, but then she’d spotted him, and she’d shown him relief and hope, of all things. 

He’d been lost then, at that very moment. He’d been lost in her, like he had the night of the battle. She had an uncanny way of staring at him like she knew his mind and soul, and didn’t flinch away. He’d follow her to the end of the earth for that. But right now, it was only very nearly to the end of the earth, and he stared up at the hulking Eyrie, trying to think of a way out. 

As if she could hear his thoughts, Sansa twisted her saddle to look back at him. He’d never forget the terror in her eyes when she’d seen him there, how she had screamed at him to take her sister and run. He knew what she said without her needing to utter a word. After all, he’d seen her when she could not lie. She’d gotten better, with Littlefinger as her teacher, but she was honest when she’d turned to him. 

But he wasn’t leaving, not without her. He wasn’t about to leave her here, with that cunt. He’d regretted not stealing her away every moment since he’d left the capital, and he looked to right that as soon as he could. This was the only way, and if he could just think of a plan, it would all work. He’d have Sansa safe, and even Arya too, if she would quit mouthing off, threatening to murder everyone. 

“Well,” Littlefinger’s chuckle made his stomach roll in anger. “She’s certainly a fighter.” 

“Yes, father.” Sansa’s voice was quiet and meek, and if he hadn’t seen the panic in her blue eyes when she’d watched him be bound and gagged between four knights, he would’ve thought she genuinely believed herself to be his bastard daughter. But she didn’t, she was playing a part, much like she had in the courts. 

“She is obviously unwell. We will have the maester sedate her, when we reach the Eyrie.” Littlefinger was musing and Sansa didn’t make a peep. 

“And the Hound too sir, the maester should see to his wounds.” She said softly, when they were nearly to the Eyrie. 

“What?” Littlefinger’s eyes flashed, even as Sandor’s stomach leapt. What was she doing?

“Well father,” Sansa kept her head down and her hands steady. “He is certainly a good fighter. He was a kingsguard once. He can be bought, easily. That’s all he is, you know. A craven, who’ll do anything for the right price.” 

He wanted to rage then, but he kept it carefully bottled. There were her words, her pretty little words. Ugly as they were, he knew what she said would paint a picture of him as a turncoat sellsword, looking to do anything for some coin. He didn’t dare raise his eyes to look at her, least he give it all away. 

“And look at his armor.” Sansa was continuing. “So worn, and dirty. He must be desperate, to bring her so far when she’s so much trouble. If you clean him and heal him, he would fight for you. Besides, think of all he might know. After all, he sat behind Cersei and Joffrey for years. You could— we could— have a direct insight to what the lions did.” 

“I know much of what they did, daughter.” But Littlefinger was stroking his beard thoughtfully and Sansa eagerly jumped on her chance. 

“I know father, because you’re so clever. But he could be your sworn shield. Make him swear an oath, and then all of the kingdoms will know that you are untouchable.” Her voice was soft, and eager, but Sandor couldn’t help the smirk that crossed him face. He’d never take an oath and she knew it. But here she was, chirping prettily in Littlefinger’s ear and making him believe her. 

“Would it make you happy, my darling daughter?” He asked, turning back to glance at him. He kept his scarred face to the ground. “His face would not repulse you so?” 

“No, father, he certainly scares and disgusts me.” Sansa put just the right amount of fear in her voice and it made his lip curl and heart sink, even if he knew her words to be lies. “But if anything were to happen to you…” She let her words trail off and he could practically see Littlefinger’s mind shifting, turning the thought over like he did with his coins. 

“Alright.” He said finally, just as they were to reach the doors to the Eyrie. “I’ll send a maester to him as I think about this, sweet Alayne. Go on, go get cleaned up. We will dine together tonight, and celebrate our day.” 

“Yes father.” Sansa swung off her horse and was gone before he could catch another glimpse of her. He watched as Littlefinger gave each guard a bit of silver, likely for their silence, and Arya was carried away. He was indeed sent to the sky cell, but with a crude blanket at least. 

After the dusk had passed and night was settling in, an old maester shuffled down into the cell. To Sandor’s shock, Sansa followed after him, eyes on the ground. He stared at her, as the maester bustled around him, working to heal all the injuries that were beginning to throb. 

“Little….” He said just the one word and felt thin fingers dig into his side, as the maester tended to a wound there. He saw the look on her face and was silent. He’d wait then, until it was safe. 

Finally, the old maester departed and Sansa dawdled, with the excuse of fiddling with bandages. When the rustling and clinking of robes and his metal chain finally faded, Sansa looked up at him and he drank her in. 

Same drab grey dress and cloak. Same brown hair. Same bright blue eyes. But with something in them now, something that reminded him of icy winter winds. She was still beautiful, still everything he remembered and dreamt of, and then more. He wanted to reach out to her, to make sure she was real, but he remembered his place. And then she spoke, in her clear, sweet voice. 

“You said once that you would take me home.” She was watching him with a look he didn’t quite understand. “That you would keep me safe, and kill everyone who hurt me. Would you make that offer again, here and now, if I asked you to?” 

It took him a second to find his raspy voice. 

“Yes little bird. I would never hurt you.” 

Her face softened then and she crossed the distance to him in a few swift steps. She reached up and touched his scarred cheek and all the maester’s balms be damned, her presence was the best way to make him forget his pain. His breath hitched as he stared down at her, and her little, gentle smile. 

“Then here’s what we’re going to do.”

**Author's Note:**

> Alright, here's my plea-- please leave me reviews, they are the greatest way to get me to keep writing, and honestly inspire me so much. Thank you for reading, and let me know what you think on the way out!


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